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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
The missus and I are throwing a party this weekend. It’s nothing fancy; just a few friends stopping by for drinks and fun and barbecued meat-like products. And in the case of my now-traditional beer brats, all three at once.
(Follow that link, if you want a roadmap to making delicious grillled bratwurst. But be warned — if you think I’m overly verbose now, you’ll be shocked at what passed for a ‘recipe’ from me a couple of years ago.
You might want to have a snack before reading, to keep your strength up. And maybe a nap. It’s a doozy.)
As the day approaches, our guest list has expanded more or less exponentially. What started as a simple get-together between chums has somehow morphed into an Event™, requiring planning and preparation and suburban mall purchases. Like lawn chairs, and plastic silverware. And a card table.
My wife and I have been together for sixteen years; not once in that time have we required a card table. Maybe we’re not doing our part to feed the rampant poker craze that’s gripping the world, but the card table thing has never been an issue. Somehow, we’ve soldiered on without one. Until now. I didn’t realize this was going to be a ‘Go Fish’ sort of party. I can hardly contain myself.
“Ever had potato salad with your morning O.J., or schmeared it on a bagel at nine AM? I have. I still have the flashbacks.”
Of course, the main purchases for this summer shindig are food items. My wife is handling those, and with good reason. She’s well aware of my limitations when it comes to predicting the behavior of other people. We’re estimating that up to thirty people might visit our humble abode on Saturday — and my wife will return home tomorrow night with enough food to feed those thirty, plus a little extra. Just in case.
And if she sent me to the grocery store? One of two things would happen — either I’d go while I’m hungry, and bring back enough bratwursts and chicken parts to feed a Canadian province, or I’d rush through the store, hurried and cranky, and return with three hamburger patties, a pack of buns, and a tub of Grey Poupon. I can almost hear me now:
‘What? It’s not like people are coming to eat, anyway. It’s the weekend; we’ll all get loaded. It’ll be fine.‘
My wife never quite shares the gusto with which I rationalize my poor decisions. She looks at me with the same icy stare you get from cops who ask, ‘Do you know why I pulled you over?‘ There are no right answers.
I have my own responsibilities, though — I’m in charge of the booze. Not that I’m any better at approximating the alcohol consumption of three dozen people on a Saturday afternoon, mind you. But we can keep beer for weeks, if need be. It’s not likely to last that long, but it’s theoretically possible, is all I’m saying.
On the other hand, once you pop the top on the party food, the clock starts ticking. And you don’t want three pounds of ticking tater salad staring you in the face after a party, let me tell you. That’s four days of thick, soggy meals, morning, noon, and night. Ever had potato salad with your morning O.J., or schmeared it on a bagel at nine AM? I have. I still have the flashbacks.
Truth be told, I’m getting off easy in this deal. I’ve seen my wife’s shopping list; it’s enormous. I think she’s on her third sheet of paper, and the list is still growing. We’ve got vegetarians coming, folks with allergies, picky eaters — she’ll basically have to buy one of everything in the store, to make sure everyone’s happy.
Alcohol management is much simpler. We’re having beer. If you like beer, have beer. If you don’t like beer… well, you’ll get a stern gaze, and your man-/woman-/child-/toddler-hood will likely be questioned. ‘Oh, you’re one of those people. There’s always one.‘
But we’ll still accomodate you with a range of tasty boozes. There’s a preferred method for living la vida loca at Chez Charlie, but it’s not the only method. There’s more than one way to skin a liver. So here’s my list, in its glorious entirety:
Beer (4 cases — 5?)
Tequila
Margarita mix (x3)
That’s it. We’ve already got the basics — vodka, gin, and vermouth for the fancy folks, and mezcal and xtabentum from our Meh-hi-co trip for the adventurous. Still, I’ll be like a kid in a liquor store, buying four cases of beer and then more booze and mixers. I hope I don’t giggle too much as I go through the register. They might think I started drinking in the store.
So, anyway, you should come by. What’s one or two more people at a party of dozens? Maybe bring some cookies, or a bag of chips; that’ll be fine. The food’s taken care of, and I’ll make damned sure we don’t run out of alcohol. It should be a hoot — and hey, apparently, we’re going to play cards, too. At least until we all pass out together in the back yard. What’s not to like?
Permalink | 2 CommentsI’m not the sort of guy who gets buyer’s remorse. I like to do all of my agonizing up-front, before I make a decision, and then never look back. I weigh the options, do my homework, analyze the variables, and make comfortable, sensible, well-informed decisions. Assuming I’m not drunk at the time. Or in a hurry. Or with a sales clerk standing over me at the magazine rack saying:
‘We’re closing in two minutes, sir — do you want the ‘Juggs’ or the ‘Naughty Grannies’? Hurry up, please.‘
(I so should have taken the ‘Juggs’. It’ll be a while before I can look at a knitted shawl again without feeling queasy.)
That brings us to the laptop I’m planning to buy. Or rather, planning to plan to buy, because for the life of me, I can’t decide which one to get. My strategy of in-depth research and cold, calculating comparison works best when the options are more or less similar to begin with.
Like candy bars, for instance. When selecting a candy bar, there are several questions to ask yourself:
‘Do I feel like a nut?‘
‘What’s my current position on crispy wafers?‘
‘Am I man enough for nougat?‘
But all of your choices will boil down to something roughly the size and shape of a candy bar, dipped in delicious milk chocolate and lovingly wrapped in decadent silvery foil. At a very fundamental level, all of the choices are roughly equal — they’re all designed to taste good, rot your teeth, and shoot your blood sugar through the roof. With candy bars, you’re comparing apples to apples.
“Buying a laptop is less like buying a candy bar, and more like finding a spouse. And much like getting married, you won’t really know whether you’ve made the right decision until you live with it for a few months.”
Not so with laptops. With notebooks, you compare Apples™ to HPs, Toshibas to Fujitsus, and Acers to Asuseseses. There are big ones, small ones, wide ones, portable ones, fast ones, fancy ones, and ones that don’t fry when you spill your drink on them. Which is important for a guy like me. I’m a big clumsy goof, and I’m usually drinking something. I’m a time bomb waiting to happen.
All the shapes and sizes and features and specs are simply dizzying. Buying a laptop is less like buying a candy bar, and more like finding a spouse. And much like getting married, you won’t really know whether you’ve made the right decision until you live with it for a few months. Also, if you’re not too picky, you can order one from Asia and have it delivered in the mail. It’s a solid analogy.
Daunting as it was, I sucked it up and did my research. I looked at dozens of machines, pored over all the optional features, and read all the reviews and benchmarks I could get my grubby eyeballs on. Then I methodically sorted out about ten features I considered ‘must-haves’. All of the ten are well within the current limits of technology, and they each appear on several currently-available notebooks.
Problem is, they apparently don’t all appear on the same currently-available notebook. Anywhere. And laptop computers aren’t uber-configurable, like their desktop cousins. It’s not as simple as buying a box and jamming a bunch of upgraded parts into your motherboard holes. With a notebook, DIY improvements often just aren’t possible — or they require special equipment and an E.E. degree. You think I’m capable of that? No way. Let me operate a soldering iron, and I’ll lose an arm. I’ll find a way. Guaranteed.
So my ‘must-haves’ really aren’t, so much. Not if I want a shiny new toy in the next three months or so, anyway. With that in mind, I went looking for options that nearly met my criteria.
(Hey, I’m a guy. If we can’t find a ’10’, we’ll absolutely settle for an ‘8’ or a ‘9’.
Under the right circumstances, even a ‘3’ or a ‘4’. Get me drunk enough, and you might sell me that old Commodore64 you’ve got stashed in your attic. How’d you like to wake up to that every morning?)
So far, I’ve narrowed the laptop field to three specific models. And while I like these machines, I’m not sure I like them like them. There’s the ‘fancy one that needs careful maintenance’, the ‘sturdy one that’s not so quick’, and the ‘bulky one that plays all sorts of games’.
(Incidentally, that’s also how I’d describe the girls I dated in high school. And look how those decisions turned out. The ‘sturdy’ one almost ran me over with her Honda. Ouch.)
I’ve decided that my ‘perfect machine’ isn’t out there. Not yet, at least. Which means I’m stuck in ‘analysis’ mode, obsessively checking for updated options and new releases, until some manufacturer takes pity on me and spits out a laptop with the right combination of bells, and just the right sort of whistles, to make the decision obvious. Otherwise, I’ll be second-guessing my new notebook for the next three-to-five years.
Or until I knock a glass of orange juice all over the keyboard, which could happen while I’m unwrapping the thing, frankly. I really should invest in a sippy cup. I wonder how many models those things come in. Yeesh.
Permalink | 1 CommentWhen I get a spare moment, I’ll add this tidbit to the Big List of Lists page. Until then, enjoy this exclusive look at:
Ten Hints That Tell a Guy He’s Too Old to Ever Be Sexy Again
10) You still imagine yourself participating when you watch steamy love scenes at the movies — only now you consider how you’d break a damned hip, if you were to carry on like that.
9) Your idea of a date involves an episode of ‘Diagnosis: Murder‘ and a Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast. With the right girl, maybe there’ll be canasta afterward.
8) Two words: coin purse.
“Your idea of a date involves an episode of ‘Diagnosis: Murder‘ and a Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast.”
7) You’ve given up on finding yourself a smoking hot MILF, and set your sights on a nice matronly GILF, instead. You’d better hope she’s a Polydent user, Romeo.
6) Watching your favorite TV programs evokes thoughts like: ‘I wonder why Bea Arthur and that Dick Van Dyke fellow never got together. They could have had the most handsome children!‘
5) Girls no longer give you their phone numbers in bars; instead, they give you the number of a good toupee fitter.
4) Four more words: 1984 Buick Riviera sedan.
3) The barber shaves your ears during a haircut. He doesn’t even ask — he just does it.
2) You notice your nipples getting more tender and sensitive. It’s from your belt chafing them when you’ve pulled your pants up under your armpits. Who are you, Ed Grimley‘s dad?
1) You make Saturday Night Live references from before anyone reading this was even born. You’ll clearly never be sexy again — you ignorant slut.
Permalink | 6 CommentsYesterday afternoon, the missus and I escorted her mother to a local museum. The mom-in-law was in town for the weekend, and we wanted to give her the impression that we’re all cultured and shit. Possibly, the dinner of Kentucky Fried Chicken and Schlitz malt liquor gave us away, but we get an ‘A’ for effort. I even used a salad fork to eat my French fried pertaters. Fancy.
“Mostly, though, I got the impression that Paris around the turn of the nineteenth century was a lot like the Paris of today — full of smokers, poodles, and people who really know how to use a salad fork.”
At any rate, we stopped by the museum to catch an exhibit titled ‘Americans in Paris‘, featuring mostly artists who emigrated from the U.S. sometime after the Civil War, and who had the good sense to die before World Wars I and II got rolling in earnest. It was a very specific artistic niche, I suppose, but how else are you supposed to support ‘the Arts’ in Boston on a drizzly weekend afternoon? The Red Sox were rained out, and most of the booby bars are closed on Sundays. Truly, our hands were tied — and not in the good way.
Determined to feed our inner aesthetes, we ventured into the murky weather. Upon leaving the house, my mother-in-law asked:
‘Don’t you want a jacket? It’s misty outside!‘
Misty? Clearly, the nice lady doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. I laugh at ‘misty’ weather. Maybe for a nor’easter, I’ll wear a jacket — you’ve got to give props to any weather system that rates an apostrophe. It’s so scary, meterologists won’t even say the whole word!
But ‘misty’? I don’t think so. I’m not altering my plans, or my wardrobe, for any kind of weather that sounds like a stripper. That goes for ‘balmy’, ‘hazy’, ‘sunny’, ‘stormy’, ‘temperate’, and ‘windy’ with a stupid little heart where the dot over the ‘i’ should be. And yes, it goes for ‘misty‘, too.
(‘Blustery’, I’m not so sure about. That one scares me a little. If ‘blustery’ were a stripper, she’d be that girl with the weird rash and one leg longer than the other who goes out after last call to scare everyone off. They send her out in granny panties and a sweatshirt to limp around to Stairway to Heaven until the place clears out. That’s ‘blustery‘; I’m telling you.
Meanwhile, back at the museum…)
There’s not too much to tell about the exhibition, really. They did have the original ‘Whistler’s Mother’, as it’s known, and a few other recognizable names and paintings. Mostly, though, I got the impression that Paris around the turn of the nineteenth century was a lot like the Paris of today — full of smokers, poodles, and people who really know how to use a salad fork. And it’s not for pommes frites, I’m afraid.
Our last adventure on the trip came on the way home. The MFA’s in a tough section of town, parking-wise, so we took advantage of the adjacent garage when we entered.
And when we left, they took advantage of us, right back. Our bill at the garage was twenty-one dollars. We were there for an hour, maybe an hour and a half.
(Twenty-plus bucks to stare at paintings for an hour? Pffft. I could gawk at ‘Misty’ for half that price. Of course, we’re still not allowed to touch the artwork.)
(Wow, three stripper references in a post about an art museum. I am blowing my ‘cultured’ cover, eh?
I’ll be good for the last few paragraphs, I promise. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. If I’m not careful, you’ll be thinking Winslow Homer gets me horny or something.
Lord knows I don’t need those rumors flying again. Let’s just get back to the story. Yow.)
I’m not typically surprised by a garage tab — parking around Boston is a cutthroat business; it just is what it is — but charging an Andy Jackson for sixty minutes of, ‘Hrm, nice brushstrokes on that one‘ is getting just a little crazy. And that’s on top of the (reasonably-priced) tickets to actually get into the museum, mind you. That’s side-of-the-highway robbery, right there. For that kind of money, I expected to receive one of the paintings as a parting gift:
‘Here, have a Sargent; it’s the least we can do. Leave your car here overnight, and we’ll throw in a Mary Cassatt — once your loan papers clear, of course.‘
Sheesh. Word to the wise and culturally inclined: take the subway to the MFA, if you decide to go. Or go ahead and park in one of those no parking handicapped bus lane hydrant tow zones near the museum — even if the cops impound your car, it’ll still be cheaper than the garage fee. I may not know art, but I know when I’m being shellacked.
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